Sirop de Vanille

To Quit or Not to Quit.

He often stared into space, trying to look pensive (sometimes he worked on the “intense look”), in actuality he was thinking of nothing but space. Space. Dark, comforting, welcoming… space. As dark as her eyes. With or without that kajal, she complained ’smudged too much despite being smudge-free’. He often stared into space… He loved it when people tried to figure him out – decipher him. The image of the mysterious loner poet, trapped in his ivory tower. A psycho stalker for some of her friends, an unabashed roadside romeo. He smiled sardonically at the thought. Dry, very amused and almost stiff-upper lip. He probably loved her. He probably loved her just like he loved a hot cup of tea after driving around in Delhi winters. He probably wanted her just as much as he wanted a cigarette, right now. He lit up a smoke with the phone cradled between his shoulder and neck. She was whispering. She wasn’t yelling, she wasn’t excited, she wasn’t happy, she wasn’t sad, and she wasn’t angry. She was whispering… softly, probably because of the time, he thought. The smoke filled up the room as he exhaled, she whispered something, and he laughed. Yes, he wanted her at times, just like he wanted a cigarette. He couldn’t kill either habit. He smiled and leaned back against the cold wall; and somehow, just somehow, despite the freezing cold – the cold wall, the cold floor – her cold calculated whispers and the smoke felt perfect. He ran his hand through his hair, shakily. He really needed to quit.

She often twirled her hair. She would play with the lose strands of hair till it curled and then let it frame her face. It could be quite distracting. She liked using this habit to her advantage – she won most arguments, she also got all her requests fulfilled at restaurants and bars (coffee shops were her favourite). She never used her looks to get what she wanted. She knew she didn’t have much to bank on. She used her charms instead. So, she observed. She tilted her head and stared into people’s eyes while she talked. She modulated her gorgeous voice. She also never left home without kajal. Her eyes were her best weapon. She could cajole, plead, seduce and kill with her eyes. And she loved to. She pulled her quilt closer and checked the battery on her phone. She stopped twirling her hair, when she heard the click of the lighter. She smiled – it was quite a nice smile, she would disagree, and crib about her teeth not being perfect, but it was a smile that usually made people smile back. He loved making her laugh. She just didn’t laugh enough. He just couldn’t get enough. He didn’t like it when she was calm and collected and in control. Although, they both knew who controlled whom. She asked him to light a cigarette for her, and he laughed. He told her he was thinking of quitting. She let out her dry laugh. The one saved for occasions where she didn’t want to think of something sarcastic to say. She got out of the quilt and reached for the pack of smokes. She lazily lit a cigarette, while she stared at herself in the mirror. That was another thing she practiced – actions. She would always remember what her Aunt had told her when she had burst into the house, all muddy and sweaty after numerous games of I-spy (hide and seek). You should be poetry in motion, you need to be, how else will you make people love you. She took another drag and rolled her eyes. That was one fucked up Aunt.

“You can come over tomorrow. Can’t you?”
“Well… you could come over to my place anytime… Why do we need to…”
“You know I like my bed. I need to sleep on my bed.”
“Uff! You are such a…”
“High maintenance bitch? Yes. That I am. So, please come over tomorrow night. She’s leaving for a week. You can stay here with me. Please.”
“Sure, I’ll pick you up after work. Don’t worry, I’ll get the car. I know you don’t like the bike.”
She smiled and tucked her hair behind her ear.